Aliens vs Predator Omnibus

by Steve Perry

  “What now?” said Attila.

  “Watch. Listen.”

  She set him on a nearby rock with a good vantage point.

  She placed herself into a stance.

  She raised her hands to her mouth.

  She made the Call.

  A high ululation carried over the trees, punctuated by a gruff, low-pitched snarl.

  She let it unwind for a full ten seconds, then allowed its echo to settle into the leaves.

  “You learned that from the Hunters?” said Attila.

  “Yes. Now, be quiet. This is going to be very delicate.”

  “If it happens at all.”

  “Yes.”

  She waited some minutes, listening.

  There was no direct answer. However, her honed instincts detected something in the distance.

  Something coming.

  She felt her adrenaline rising. She felt the old machinery clicking into place. Machiko Noguchi let loose again the ka’rik’na, the summoning, and the mesh’in’ga, the battle-dreamtime, folded over her. She was able to access areas of her mind that had been retreating from her human state.

  Yes.

  They were coming.

  The question was, would she have time to explain what had happened? Would these creatures remember her betrayal? If so, then she had just one slim chance, and she inwardly prepared herself to take advantage of that chance.

  One moment the glade in which they stood was empty save for them.

  The next, a warrior materialized, shutting off his invisibility device.

  She did not recognize him. She spoke immediately, using a few simple phrases she remembered from the abrupt, barking language of the yautja.

  “I am one with you. I come to fight with you. I am a Blooded One.”

  She had made sure before that her locks were well pulled away from the singed marking on her forehead, the marking that Broken Tusk had given her, the marking of bug acid mixed with yautja blood. This had saved her before and would give them pause now.

  The warrior was dressed in armor and helmet and stood in a battle-crouch.

  He advanced slightly, to have a look.

  Grunted with surprise.

  Called back to companions as yet not visible.

  Seeing she was not armed, he stood up and addressed her.

  “Prepare to die.”

  She had warned Attila to expect this, and when it happened, to keep quiet, no matter what. Even though he wouldn’t understand the word, he would doubtless distinguish the doom in the intonation.

  However, this was to be expected. It was a kind of rough greeting as well as a challenge. A test, if you will, and easy enough to pass.

  “Should I die, it will be in battle. I have many trophies. My honor will last while my bones last.”

  The Predator grunted.

  He approached her.

  He was a regular-sized creature, which is to say much taller, much bigger than she. Although with one swipe of the blades on his wrist he could cut her down at any time, she stood stock-still. One hint of fear, one tremble, could be her undoing. She stood, chin outthrust in a stance of honor as he walked around her.

  With a sudden clang the blade erupted.

  The creature jabbed.

  The alien steel stopped just inches from her eyes.

  He said something quickly, only snatches of which she understood.

  “…death… dismemberment… skull… wall… treachery…

  It didn’t sound good.

  She said three words.

  Honor.

  Courage.

  Danger to the megapack (or words to that effect).

  The blades lowered.

  “Danger?”

  “Hard Meat. Soft Meat take Hard Meat.” She tapped her cranium, indicating her brain. “Dangerous warrior now.”

  The creature shook his dreadlocks with a great moaning growl.

  “We must stop,” said Machiko.

  The Hunter stepped back.

  “Trick,” he snarled.

  However, if he really believed this was a trick, then her guts would be hanging from the trees now, and her white, shining skull would be inside the guy’s net bag.

  “No,” she said.

  An easy word, even in yautja parlay.

  The Hunter growled up some word from the back of his throat, spat it out. He backed up, bristling. From a belt he drew a knife. He raised it to the skies, and a call ripped through the air.

  Machiko, however, was not afraid.

  Machiko knew the meaning of the gesture, if not the precise meaning of the word.

  It was a summons.

  The bushes ridging the glade rustled as though some sudden selective wind had passed through them.

  Like some sort of photographic special effects in a 3-D movie, spectral figures began to take shape, walking from the bushes, fading into reality.

  Ten of them.

  From a blur to solid, fierce reality.

  The pack.

  They stood, some holding spears, others holding burners. The fact that they had more than just spears and knives meant that they were now involved in more than just a Hunt.

  They stood as a unit, staring at Machiko, their eyes burning into her soul.

  She stared back, defiantly, proudly. It was as though she could feel the sign on her brow pulsing, its burning flame a signal to them.

  This one is Worthy.

  She is a Hunter.

  She has been Blooded.

  She stood her ground and called a greeting of comrades.

  “I need your help in a great battle,” she said. “I have come to tell you of something you should know.”

  Suddenly, though, another wavering, and another smaller spectral figure emerged from the bushes.

  Took form.

  Became.

  “We know,” said the new arrival. “You are Traitor.”

  Machiko’s heart froze.

  Lar’nix’va.

  The Hunter she had come to call Shorty.

  20

  Shorty.

  Lar’nix’va.

  No question about it, even though he wore his armor and a helmet, she recognized the diminutive form.

  He was no longer the youth he had been; he had grown in muscle if not in height. There was a Napoleonic swagger to his step, and arrogance to his stance.

  Not only was it Shorty, but from all signs he seemed to be the Leader of this group.

  “No,” she said. “No traitor. Warrior!”

  Damn!

  In this kind of situation she wished she had more than just a few words, a few honor-filled postures to use. She could explain everything in detail. Instead, she just had to rely on imperatives and single emphatic words to get her meaning across.

  “Kill her,” said Shorty.

  There was no time, it would seem, even if she had the words she needed.

  She had one slim glimmer of hope, one trump card, and even as weapons were raised, she took a step forward and held up a hand.

  “No. I challenge. I defend honor. Battle.”

  This caused a great commotion among the yautja. They jabbered among themselves for a moment and then stepped back as one, away from their Leader.

  Shorty grunted.

  He raised his spear.

  Threw it.

  The thing throbbed to a halt in the dirt at Machiko’s feet. Without hesitation Machiko picked it up. Brandished it.

  Shorty called to a second, and immediately there was a spear in his hand.

  He took a significant step forward.

  The duel was on.

  Machiko had gambled on this. She knew that if she threw down the gauntlet, it would have to be picked up. Such was the code of yautja. Honor was all. Courage had to be met with courage, and life itself was not so important as the valiant and brave departure of life.

  If she could best the Leader of this pack, then she could get them to listen. And she felt that if she could get them to listen, really listen, then she
could get them to join with her in an assault; then possibly this horror being perpetrated by this rich maniac might be prevented, curtailed, stopped.

  First, though, she had to defeat her old nemesis, the Hunter she called Shorty.

  And defeating a Hunter in this kind of situation meant one thing.

  A fight to the death.

  Shorty feinted, then stepped back two steps.

  He made a series of snorting sounds that was the equivalent of yautja laughter. Did a little shuffling dance, then mimed her usual initial attack moves.

  Damn!

  He’d seen her fight, of course. He knew that she knew some fancy steps, knew some sort of odd physical/mental laws generally dubbed “martial arts.”

  If she tried anything ordinary on him, this genius of combat, this Predator would know exactly what was going to happen and would be a couple of steps ahead of her.

  Besides that, all she had in terms of weapons was this short spear. Shorty had his spear, along with his personal arsenal, to say nothing of his armor and helmet.

  The Hunter concept of “even-steven” was rough indeed.

  Shit.

  “Well, you bastard,” she said. “Thank God I’ve got some new moves.” She attacked.

  If anything, she was in better shape now, more limber and agile, and she put it all to the test in just under two seconds. She feinted, flipped, rolled, jabbed, retreated, rolled, ran, fell, and then thrust upward toward the place she knew was the most vulnerable.

  The moves clearly surprised Shorty.

  Nonetheless, he wasn’t quite in the spot where he was supposed to be, so the point of her spear only glanced off the side of his armor.

  With a snort he brought his own spear down toward her.

  Mistake.

  She dodged the thrust, grasped the shaft by its base, and twisted the torque of her body in such a way as to capitalize on the momentum he had generated.

  Her legs went up, and she executed a perfect flip.

  The force of his fall on his back broke his grasp on his spear, and suddenly she had two weapons.

  She used her original immediately, trying to push the head under the armpit of the armor.

  Shorty wrenched away.

  His wrist knives flipped out as he rolled to another fighting stance. He crouched and regarded her, doubtless with more caution and respect now.

  “Bitch,” he snarled. Or a word to that effect.

  Well, maybe not respect.

  She bounced on the balls of her feet, agile and ready, warming up and prepared for the next onslaught, the next maneuver.

  They circled each other warily. She could hear him breathing harshly behind his mask. She could hear his mandibles working with hate and frustration. Shorty had despised her. Now he loathed her even more, and he had the chance to finish this particular warrior’s tale. Oh, how much the little bastard longed to rip her spine out. Oh, how proudly would he display her bleached Soft Meat skull, finally removed of the counterfeit blooding scar that had tormented him so!

  Yeah, buddy, she thought.

  Come and get it, you asshole.

  Two spears were not the ideal pairing of instruments.

  In fact, she would have preferred a good hard knife. However, Machiko knew she had to make do with what she had. Although a thought occurred to her…

  The spear shafts were made of wood. She dropped the blade of one quickly to the ground, then stepped down, hard, upon it.

  Snap.

  She now had a knife.

  She picked it up just as Shorty lunged.

  With no wasted motion she leaped, rolled, and came up several feet clear of his attack. Seeing an opening, she whacked him across his buttocks with the broad side of the spear.

  No damage, but doubtless it hurt his pride.

  She laughed and called him the Hunter equivalent of “jackass.”

  He roared around and came for her. The move was expected, but it was so fast that she had to meet him head-on. She narrowly avoided the slash of his blades as she sidestepped him. She thumped the knife against the back of his head.

  When she came away, she saw the blood on it A nasty yellow-green.

  She displayed it for the others.

  “First blood!” she called.

  Anything to put this killing machine off balance.

  Maybe too off balance. Before she could recover from his last lunge, he lunged again.

  This time she didn’t have time to dance away.

  Shorty whacked into her, and suddenly they were rolling around on the ground. Not exactly the optimum position in which to exercise her knowledge of martial arts.

  Now it wasn’t even street fighting.

  It was dirt struggle.

  Had he been a normal-sized Hunter, surely his strength would have overwhelmed her immediately. Fortunately, he was not, and she was able to keep those deadly razor-sharp blades away. Nonetheless, when they finished their roll, he was on top, bearing down, albeit without his mask, which had somehow gotten loosed in the ruckus.

  His eyes glared evilly, and his mandibles crawled like crab spiders descending upon their prey. His blood seeped from behind his head, dripping at her.

  “Know that I have killed you.” He said the ritual words and brought the blade down toward her neck, struggling against the grip of her right hand.

  It was like an unfair arm-wrestling match. Shorty had the right angle for all the power. Sweat popped out on her brow.

  Her other hand. It had the knife. If she could just have a moment, she might be able to use it, now that the helmet was gone.

  The clicking mandibles came down.

  The burning eyes…

  The blades…

  Inches from her eyes and—

  There was a hissing sound.

  A wisp of smoke.

  Machiko watched, astonished, as a tiny hole was punched in the side of Shorty’s temple.

  His force bearing down on her was abruptly diminished, and she did not wait around to question her opportunity but pulled the spearhead up, around, and stabbed with all her might at this oblique angle.

  The edge of the spearhead thrust up into the soft juncture of chin and neck, below the mandibles.

  Up, hard up, through arteries and brain tissue.

  Shorty’s eyes flamed and looked down with surprise at the warrior he thought he had bested.

  Blood spurted from his neck.

  The lights in the eyes struggled to stay lit. They went out, hatred still glaring, denying that Death was coming.

  The muscles relaxed, and the Leader of the Hunters dropped upon her.

  She pushed him off.

  Got to her feet.

  Pulled the makeshift knife from his throat, ripping out corded vein and artery and muscle in a swift coup de grâce.

  Not necessary, but an effective touch.

  She brandished the gory weapon, the defeated’s blood runneling down the blade onto her hand and her shirt.

  “Victor! To me, glory!”

  She didn’t know many phrases in the yautja language, but she knew the most effective and necessary ones.

  The Hunters raised their own weapons. Not to retaliate, but as a gesture of acceptance and respect.

  She stood there a moment, taking her due for the victory, a foot squarely on top of the defeated Shorty.

  Well, you bastard, she thought. Payback time.

  However, most of her mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out what had happened. The other Hunters clearly hadn’t noticed the hole burning into their Leader.

  The question was, Where had it come from?

  She calculated its direction of origin.

  Took a quick look.

  And was astonished.

  There, looking out at her from the open bag in which he had been transported, was Attila the Hun.

  The android winked at her.

  What the hell was going on?

  21

  Livermore Evanston watched the creature through the thic
k glass wall. No matter how long he stared at the things, he could never get enough of them. His geneticists told him the same thing was true about the study of their genetic code, and they had similar adjectives to employ.

  Fiendishly clever.

  The bug had been drugged by a gas, and the mist of the stuff still clung to the chitin of its ventral section. This one happened to be a genetic parent to the altered replicants down in the tanks. There had been another bug, another batch, but for some reason those had not worked out so well. In fact, one had managed to escape with a gun, of all things. It had long since disappeared, but Evanston had been gratified to learn of its discovery. Apparently the other mysterious alien life-form that visited this planet had killed it, which was just as well.

  The bug’s helmetlike head stirred. Its secondary jaws were extended, and Evanston marveled at the hard black of its teeth and jaws. The creatures, his scientists had reported, had the approximate intelligence of dogs. Alas, however, unlike dogs, they could not be trained. When Evanston had bought his first bug, obtained on Ryushi after the calamitous infection there, he’d seen its potential immediately, but the genetic work on it had taken years and an incredible amount of money. Evanston had seen immediately that this work could not be done with the Company’s knowledge. Evanstonville was already in the works, and so it was a natural choice to establish his bug project there.

  He’d searched for a cornerstone of Conquest, and these cybernetic warriors, surely, were it.

  Cybernetics: that was the key, and Livermore Evanston had seen possibilities, if not the actual biotechnical details, immediately. Breed the things for higher intelligence, to be connected to hyperneural-tech transducers and synaptic shunts. Stick on machines, wire up the correct programs for radio control, design armor and weapons.

  Result: efficient, almost unstoppable warriors of the future.

  An army with which to conquer worlds.

  In school was where Livermore Evanston had dreamed of conquest. Not military school, but business school. It had been his hobby. He’d played computer war-games. He’d fought all the great battles, from Waterloo to Gettysburg, from the Battle of the Bulge to the Battle of the Millennium. And as his ties with the Company grew, he began to see the potential for his dreams of absolutely boundless power.

  The Company had little vision. They were bean counters. Evanston, however, saw the potential. Economic might was just the springboard. With the energy of scientific breakthroughs, all the way from faster starships to this marvelous genetic razzle-dazzle, the proper kind of mind could unlock the keys to the universe.